


Too good to be good for me

by Cirkne



Series: heart as loud as lions [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Blood, Modern AU, a lil angsty but when is this series not, focuses on john/herc but they're all dating, mute Alexander, non sexual choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:29:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirkne/pseuds/Cirkne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I'm in love with you," Hercules says.</i>
</p><p>  <i>"Why?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Too good to be good for me

**Author's Note:**

> this is all the soft farmers gcs fault. 
> 
> title from too good by troye sivan because it's such a herc/john song it makes my heart ache

"It's ironic that I work in human resources," John's saying, his shoulder pressed to Hercules' chest on the couch. His lip is split, bruised, looks like it hurts but John's not complaining about it. Yesterday Hercules had watched him grinning outside of a bar, blood on his teeth, blood dripping down his chin. Like a fucked up image of a child who eats messy. John's blood is grape juice. Grape juice seeping into John's white shirt collar, staining it. John's blood is imaginary.

"What are you going to tell your coworkers?" Hercules asks. His hand rests on John's stomach. He wishes he could fit John into his hands, keep him from getting in trouble, keep him from getting hurt. He knows John would find a way, still. He always does. 

"I'll think of something," John answers easily, like this isn't a big deal. Hercules swallows, fights the urge to haul John on top of him. His hair's getting longer, wrapping around his neck, falling on his shoulders. He smells like apples. Sometimes Hercules expects him to smell like gunpowder. Like copper. Like alcohol. Like bad decisions. It's always apples. Some parts of him don't fit with the others.

"I'm in love with you," Hercules says and John stills for a moment, his eyes on the ceiling, his hands crossed on his chest. He frowns, looks at Hercules. There's something in his eyes like he doesn't- can't understand it. Hercules waits. John doesn't look any less confused.

"Why?" he asks, quiet. It feels like it wasn't meant to slip out, like John's thinking out loud, like he's forgotten Hercules is even there. Hercules presses his hand down where it's resting on John's skin. Wants to give him his reasons but he doesn't know, sometimes. Doesn't know right now. It was never logical with him. 

He thinks he fell in love when John was curled up next to him, telling him about his father. He thinks he fell in love at four in the morning when they were drunk on their kitchen floor and John's head was on Hercules' chest. He thinks he fell in love at a grocery store on Saturday morning, John leaning on the cart and smiling, hair tied up in a bun. He thinks. Or, he'd like to think. _If I have to kill every abusive asshole with my own two hands, I will_ , John had said once, laying on the concrete floor at midnight, looking up at the sky, his hands clutching at his side. Hercules fell then, street lamps illuminating John's face, wind against Hercules' skin.

Hercules feels like somehow John is a siren leering him in, pulling him under the water. John can breathe there and Hercules will learn. If he needs to, Hercules will grow gills. As long as he gets to stay with John.

"Because I do," he says and thinks of shooting stars, of meteorites, thinks of how he fell in the dark and ended up in the ocean, thinks of the waves he caused. John's lips are purple with bruises. If he kissed him now, it would probably hurt.

John looks up at the ceiling again. His eyes big and empty. He's staring into space. His fingers twitch on his chest and then he moves his hand to rest on top of Hercules' own. There's freckles on his fingers, on his knuckles, on his wrist. There's freckles on every part of his skin. It's a star map. Hercules has never been good with maps. Sometimes he can't read John, but he tries. Tries every time.

"I'm in love with you too," John says almost absently, like it's not supposed to be big, like it's something obvious, something that's just there. _The sun rises in the morning._

"I know," Hercules answers. He's watching John. John's watching the ceiling. Their legs are tangled together. Yesterday Hercules had watched him grinning outside of a bar, blood on his teeth, blood dripping down his chin. He had leaned into Hercules and sighed, had asked him to be taken home. He still smelled like apples. Hercules looks at their hands. Doesn't kiss him. 

*

John's watching their washing machine spin, eyes empty, hands folded in his lap. Hercules wonders if he knows he's doing it, if he's aware he's there at all. Lafayette does that sometimes. Dissociation. Depersonalization. Something. Hercules knows the terms, but they get mixed up in his head somehow. John watches Lafayette do it and two days later he does it too. Something about not being his own person. Something about absorbing everything around him.

John's a liana vine. Abuse survivor. Has a personality disorder. He's a person but he doesn't know he is. Forgets he is. Hercules doesn't get it, isn't supposed to get it. He wants to help, but he doesn't know what to do. John doesn't tell him. Pain helps, sometimes. Hercules doesn't know why. 

John on his knees in front of Hercules, bare chest freckled, tears in his eyes, mouth open and he's gasping, begging. His fingers are wrapped around Hercules' wrists, holding his hands on his neck.

"Do it, do it, choke me, please, do it, please," he's saying. Hercules tries not to hear the _kill me_ he bites down, but it's there. They've never done this before. John's talked about it, almost like a joke. It's never a joke with John.

"Why don't you ask Lafayette or Alexander?" Hercules asks, a desperate attempt to get away from this. His mouth is dry and his hands are trembling and his voice is shaking and he feels like he might just drop to his knees as well. His John. His beautiful, kind John that he loves and wants to protect, not hurt, doesn't want to hurt him like this.

"Please, Hercules," John says, looking up at him, his hair is sticking to his face with sweat but his skin is cold where Hercules is touching him. 

"Why me?" he asks and loosens his grip. John whines, squeezes his wrists like Hercules has hurt him. Hercules doesn't want this, doesn't want him like this, doesn't want him on his knees, god.

John's talked about what he did after he moved out of his father's home. He's said: _A person that agrees to choke you as soon as you ask them is not a person you want to choke you_ , something sharp in the way he said it. Something sharp in his eyes, something sharp in his jaw. Hercules' fingers are wrapped around his neck.

"It has to be you," John says, quiet, and he's not looking at Hercules anymore, eyes on the floor, like he's afraid. Afraid of what? Hercules feels wrong, goes to let go completely, goes to pull away but John is holding him in place. "I'll do _anything_ ," he says and the way he sounds makes Hercules' chest ache. 

He watches John. Considers. Alexander is still in his office, writing, the door shut. Alexander can probably hear them. Hercules watches John. 

"Look at me," he asks, his voice soft and sweet and the way John hates it. John does and he doesn't argue, doesn't get angry or annoyed. His eyes pleading. His eyes hopeful. Poignant. Hercules wraps his fingers around John's throat again and he presses and he watches him gasp. And then he hears him gasp, like John's body and his voice are out of sync.

He's struggling not to fight it, Hercules can see that, but he told him he'd do that. Hercules keeps pressing. John keeps gasping and then stops. His face flushes red, from him neck raises slowly to his cheekbone. Loud gasp. To his hair and then nothing. John's quiet. His mouth hangs open. Hercules feels strangely like he's watching a movie on mute.

He waits, doesn't press further. Waits. John drops his hands, gives up and Hercules lets go and then catches John when he doesn't catch himself. He thinks: I killed him. He thinks: He asked me to do this. He thinks: I shouldn't have agreed. He thinks: I killed him. He thinks: I need to do something. John inhales, loud, like Hercules has pulled him out of the water and Hercules feels like that, too. He moves John's hair away from his face.

John's smiling. Limp in Hercules' arms and he's grinning like he's high. He probably is. That's a thing, Hercules is sure. The adrenaline of being close to death. _Close to death_ , Hercules thinks and wants to throw up. _Close to death_ , that's what Hercules did to him. He wants to let go. He wants to leave John on the kitchen floor and go wash his hands, he wants to sit down in their bathtub and stay there.

"Thank you," John says, loopy grin on his face, teeth showing, eyes closed, body still limp. There's a mole above the left crook of his elbow, it's fit itself in between John's freckles. A marked X spot for the needle. Hercules covers it with his hand. What a place to be. Forever on John's skin. He wants to fit himself there too. He wants to be ink, wants to be blood, he wants to belong to John.

John opens his eyes like he's blinking himself awake, arms wrapping around Hercules' waist. He presses his lips to Hercules' chest, just below his collarbone, hums.

"You're so good to me," he says. Hercules tries not to think about it. Tries. Fails. Doesn't look John in the eyes. They stand there for a really long time. When John pulls away, Hercules can see the marks his fingers left. Doesn't want to breathe. John's looking at him and then he lets Hercules go, slides down on the floor, closes his eyes. Hercules is reminded of crime scenes and dead body contours drawn in chalk. He wants to check if John is still alive but it's stupid, irrational. He can see his chest move.

Hercules walks to Alexander's office door. Knocks. His knuckles against the wood. Alexander doesn't react. It's too quiet there. It's always too quiet there.

"Alexander," Hercules says to the door. "I can't do this right now." There's a pause. Hercules can hear Alexander's chair move on the floor. He opens the door, looks taller than Hercules knows him to be. He's not. Hercules' shoulders are hunched down. He might be shaking. He doesn't know. He probably is.

"You need to take care of him," Hercules says. He's dizzy. He needs to lay down. Alexander puts his hands on Hercules' elbows, looks at him. Hercules thinks he is a book in Alexander's eyes, he is a mess of words. He is a knot made entirely out of sentences and Alexander untangles him.

Alexander moves his hand, presses it to Hercules cheek, inhales and exhales loudly. Hercules does the same. Alexander nods, leaves him standing at the office door. Hercules turns around to watch him go. Breathes.

Alexander lifts John up like it's easy, like they don't weight the same. John, with his eyes still half closed, lets Alexander lead him to the kitchen table, falls easily into one of the chairs, leans his head back. Alexander kisses John's neck. His lips gentle where Hercules' fingers had been. Hercules feels sick. Is sick, for doing this, for hurting John. Walks out of the kitchen.

He falls down on the couch, his cheek against the arm rest. Listens. John says something he can't make out. Alexander goes back to writing.

Hercules counts. Stops, starts again. Keeps counting. Doesn't know why he's doing it. Stops. Breathes. Starts again. Doesn't think about John in the kitchen. Closes his eyes. Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four- red marks on John's neck. One, two, three, four...

He stops trembling eventually, opens his eyes. There's only so long he can allow himself to be upset.

"John?" he calls and John is walking into the living room, kneeling in front of the couch to be eye level with Hercules. Hercules wants, desperately, to tell him to stand up. Looks at him. Beautiful green eyes looking back. Doesn't.

"Sorry I made you do that," John says, freckles on his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids when he blinks. "I won't ask you again if you don't want me to." Something hopeful in his eyes. You offer things to be polite and then you beg them to say no. Hercules looks at John. John's smiling back. His neck no longer looks irritated. Doesn't look like it will bruise. It might. Hercules doesn't know. He needs to look into it.

"It's fine," he says. "I'll do it when you need me to." John watches him for a moment. Eyes sharp again. No evidence of Hercules hurting him. Maybe it didn't happen. Hercules closes his eyes.

John takes his hand, presses his lips to Hercules' forehead.

"We'll work on it, ok?" he asks and when Hercules doesn't answer, says: "Thank you for doing it. I really needed that."

Needed, Hercules thinks. Breathes out. Pulls at John's arm until he lays down on top of Hercules. Opens his eyes. John's freckles are still star maps. Hercules still can't read them. His freckles are sand grands. His freckles are autumn leaves. Hercules' fingers are tree branches, he runs his thumb down John's cheek. Looks at him.

"We'll work on it," he nods. John grins, something warm in his eyes. Hercules feels it bloom in his chest. Kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to actually have plot but i gave up bc im a failure.
> 
> hmu @ tadaffodil on twitter or something


End file.
